Short Writings

Sex Dreams (originally published in Sex: Our Bodies, Our Junk)

As a psychologist, I hear about all kinds of sex dreams. Many of my patients like to start their sessions with them, and I try to be receptive. "What's the latest sex dream?" I'll ask, and then I'll feign enthusiasm as they ramble on. "That sounds great!" But many of them feature poor story logic, and are unappealing in their texture or emotional syntax. There's no "wow" factor. Still, I have to be polite.

For hundreds of years people didn't dream about sex, they dreamed about bears and fish. Then along came a fellow named Sigmund Freud. He pointed out that a lot of these bears and fish were behaving in sexually provocative ways. In Freud's view the human head is like a house, with an attic that we don't go in called the subconscious, where tiny people called subconscii live. They come down out of the attic when we're asleep, Freud claimed, and they mess around, enacting weird little scenarios that are really about sex in disguise. Freud became the "daddy" of sex dream theorization, and I'll bet he made a bundle.

"That pickle sandwich that's winking at you in your dreams, that represents something," claimed Freud. Everything represented something sexual. If you dreamed about sex with a moth, that meant you wanted to have sex with your mother. Freud believed that anything in dreams that was in the form of a container, such as an igloo or a paper bag, could hold a penis, and vice versa. Some of his talk has been dismissed as crazy, but Subconsciii have been discovered to be real.

Later, or possibly at the same time, another man named Karl Jung had some other theories. To him dreams represented "Archie Types." All of us dream of being either Archie, Reggie, Jughead, Betty, Veronica, Big Ethel, Moose, Principal Weatherbee, or "Pop" Swenson the janitor, argued Jung. Sexual dreams represent our desires to have sex with other characters, he believed.

100 years later, and sexy dream research is big business. Fully most of us dream about a sex "a lot of the time!" That's according to experts at the New Jersey Institute For Parasexic Research. And woman dream about sex as much as the same as men, but with a difference: men are more likely to dream about sex with TV characters or cereal mascots, while women dream about imaginary and impossible sexual positions such as the Flying Wooba or the Jester's Tadpole. That information comes to us from the Academy of Doing It In Your Head Studies in Amsterdam.

As a psychologist specializing in sex dream disorders, it's my job to know about these studies. But a comprehensive knowledge of modern technology is also essential. Today's dream landscape is littered with foreign material: some accidental, some not. We're all used to having the occasional dream about a taxi dispatcher or ham radio enthusiast. But every night thousands of people dream of the Fonz saying "Sit on it!" This is a test transmission that NASA made in 1979 that got bounced off the moon and ended up trapped in toilet tanks. If you sleep less than twelve feet from a toilet tank, you're gonna experience this in your lifetime. This is distinct from deliberate transmissions perpetrated by spoiled Hollywood actors. Many celebrities have satellites in orbit, beaming sexually suggestive scenarios featuring themselves into thousands of sleeping heads. If you dream of sex with a famous person, let them know you don't appreciate it. Find out where they live, and go there with your lawyer. A smart celebrity will pay big to have their dream intrusion go unreported. Robert Foxworth once paid me a million dollars to keep quiet about his spanking a patient of mine, in her dreams, with a shoe that was also her father. And a toilet eel. I signed an agreement that said I was never to mention it in print. Oh dammit.

In positive developments, interactive dream software is in constant development. Pretty soon you should be able to close your eyes and access a drop-down menu with control options for content and visual quality. Software control will require installation of an official OS with yourself logged in as a user account. Problems may result from unauthorized attempts to gain outside access, or the accidental installation of duplicate user accounts. Once all system conflicts have been resolved, fantastic dream sex- at the required level of explicitness, with anyone you choose- will be yours for nightly enjoyment, in the strange, as yet unencountered smoky vapor-covered lands of the future.

MY LIFE OF FAILURE (originally printed in Cracked)

"Everything I've done is no damn good!" These, the first words of Sheldon Landwehr's autobiography, may seem unduly harsh, but upon reading through the list of the seventy-two movies on which he served as director and writer, one has to admit he may have a point: the best are awful, most are simply unwatchable. Another man might feel depressed, but Landwehr seems darned cheerful. "They were worse when I was trying!" he says, and his frankness in describing his own ineptitude lifts this book above more self-serving memoirs.

Landwehr began his career in the mailroom at low-budget crank-em-out Prolific Studios in 1941; within three months he had been promoted to writer, thanks to a little thing called World War Two. "All the competent guys got drafted, but I had fallen arches!" he explains. Soon Landwehr was cranking out as many as two scripts a week for deservedly forgotten Bs such as Gas Busters and The Island of Doctor Moron. By 1943 he had moved to directing; his first film, What's That Clanking, was described by Leonard Maltin as "the worst robot butler movie ever made." Others followed in quick succession, including Rotating Commandos, 1944, and Stop that Hitler!, 1945. Most of these hour-long films featured twenty-minute scenes of characters punching each other; they are considered so execrable that fifty years later Martin Scorcese personally lobbied for their destruction.

Then, in 1947, Landwehr attempted a musical, and surprisingly it was a mild hit. Holiday Woman is about a woman who loves holidays; the color film was developed improperly, resulting in green-skinned people against a purple sky. "I'm colour-blind, you see." says Landwehr. But "the studio actually managed to turn the lousy color to our advantage, because they tacked on a prologue explaining that the whole story took place on Mars, which was a big deal at the time. They didn't explain why the Martians were all excited by the Earth holidays, though." Still, the ruse worked, and led to Landwehr being hired at Superior Studios the following year, when Prolific went bankrupt.

"They wanted me to do another musical, but boxing pictures were also big, so they assigned me to do a boxing musical. That didn't work out so good." I'll Never Box With You, My Lovely features awful songs like 'Give Dat Mug a Pasting for Me" and leaden dialogue written by the director:

Punchy Joe: I could really go for you, Sally.

Sally: But you're standing right in front of me.

Punchy Joe: That's right, maybe I should go outside and then come back and go for you.

It was not a hit. Still unfired, Landwehr was taken off musicals and put to work on crime films such as Murder Irritates My Sinuses and Boring Underworld. "I meant that the underworld was boring it's way into civic government, as in boring a hole, but I guess it was a mistake to put the word 'boring' in a movie title. That one made about twenty dollars at the box office." Landwehr was taken off crime films and put onto historical material; the result, The Six Chives of Henry VIII, is probably the only film to be completely based on a typo. At this point the studio noticed his incompetence and let him go.

Surviving as a cobbler for the next five years, Landwehr was finally noticed for his strong anti-communist stance. "Those commies, they'd never tolerate a guy like me" he explains; he was hired to make propaganda films for right-wing studio Patriotic, helming the Dirty Reds series. From then on his career continued uninterrupted through most of the film trends for the next thirty years; a few selected titles show the variety of his misfires. The "Spaghetti Western" Shut Uppa-You Face, 1968; the "swinging Sex comedy" Swingers Love Doing It, 1971; the Blaxploitation flick Black Lady Quixote, 1973; and the dreadful semi-pornographic horror film Ghost Nuts, 1976, which featured a phosphorescently painted pair of testicles as its main special effect.

Drugs were big in Hollywood at this time, and Landwehr benefited, as "people were so high they didn't notice I didn't know what I was doing.” This helps to explain astonishing bombs such as The Stepford Stepchildren Meet Sanfords Wives, 1979, and Quit Horsing Around, Man Called Horse!, 1981, which paired Richard Harris with Donnie Most from Happy Days. The disco musical Good Grief! It's Wednesday! led to the breakdancing film Breakin' Even, which was notable for its all-white cast. Lovin' It, about "a marriage interrupted by an orangutang," once again features a twenty-minute scene where two characters punch each other and fall over cardboard boxes. Explains Landwehr, "I'm lazy, and to me punching is an acceptable way to fill screen time. Although Olivier seemed kind of angry afterwards."

During the nineties, his career slowed only slightly. The Afro-American comedy Oh No You Didn't! sparked protests from the NAACP; the kid's film The Hardly Twins in Almost-land was never finished because "we killed the two leads, accidentally I mean. But we paid off the parents and hushed it up good. Oops, maybe I shouldn't be writing this. God, I am such an idiot." It's that peculiar brand of blithe honesty that makes us like the author, and makes this book such an entertaining read.

The New Adventures of Holmes & Watson

Greetings dear reader. My name is Doctor John Watson, and as you may have noticed it has been a little while since I brought you the latest adventures of myself and my friend Holmes. In truth, we had some extraordinary adventures, and it was only that I had been prevented from writing them down by some extraordinary exigencies, which I may later explain for your perusement. Suffice it to say there is a backlog of cracking good yarns for me to tell!

On the day the adventure I am about to relate began, Holmes and I were perusing some medical drawings while, out in the hall, we could hear clearly the noises of Mrs. Hudson having a terrible 'do, when suddenly there came a knockification at the door. "Open that, will you Watson," said Holmes pleasantly. "See if it is a delivery I have been expecting."

I opened the door to find a greasy-skinned, swarthy, sallow-faced individual, who immediately pushed his way through the door despite my protestations. I was dissuaded from immediate action by the fact that he was holding in his hand the wrist of an extremely sleepy-looking young woman. "Outa my way, there's a guy out there looks like a cop." He marched over to Holmes and struck a confrontational pose with his hand on his hip. "Holmes, where the devil were you? I rented a hotel room for two hours and you didn't come so I could make a movie. C'mon, let's get down there so you two can make some beautiful music." He grabbed at Holmes's wrist and tried to pull him along , but Holmes would not budge. "I'm sorry Dudley, but I simply cannot do it. I'm waiting for a delivery of heroin and cocaine so I can enjoy my famous eightballs. I see you've got your camera with you, why don't I just have sex with this young woman"- here he kissed her hand gallantly- "whilst you film us? I assure you, the lighting is totally good enough." (I should mention at this point, the Holmes I'm talking about is not the famed 19th-century detective Sherlock Holmes, but his descendant, the celebrated late Twentieth-century pornographic actor John Holmes. And in case you thought I was the well-known writer and Doctor John Watson, let me assure you that I am his grandson, at least spiritually. My legal name is actually Ned R. Feinberg, if you must know. Anyway, back to the story!)

Holmes and the woman took off their clothes, and Holmes had sex with her in a variety of positions while Dudley filmed them. It all seemed very athletic and they both appeared to be enjoying both themselves and each other. There was a lot of moaning and groaning going on. Anyway after a while they finished up with a lot of shouting, and then they got dressed and Dudley paid the woman and she left. "How'd you guys like to be involved in a crime I'm planning?" he suggested, and to my surprise Holmes did not immediately refuse but starting nodding slowly, chewing on his toothpick. Just then there was another knock at the door- of course this time it was the drug deliveryfellow, right on time. "Gentlemen, I insist you join me for one of my famous speedballs," said Holmes genially. "Afterwards we'll discuss your robbery or whatever it is." And just like that, we were embarked on another adventure! I don't remember most of what ensued, but suffice it to say I'm staying out of Brentwood, at least for a while; also I only have one thumb now!

Bard Chasers

"The thing had crapped out, and I was flatter'n a worm'" Mutt Jeffins is saying, his leathery eyes blinking in the grey Jersey sunlight. The "thing" he is referring to is his reality show, "The Adventures of Mutt the Fugitive Chaser," which ran on the Fox Men's Adventure Channel from 2003 to 2006. The sudden cancellation, he says, left him devastated. "Then my wife's a professor, she tells me about all these missing Shakespeare plays and I figure..." Here he makes eye contact, prodding me in the chest with a sausage finger to make his point. "Let's go get 'em."

This explains the rationale behind his new reality series, "Mutt's Shakespeare Hunt." It's been filming for three weeks now, and I've come along to witness a day's shooting in New Jersey.

"We haven't been able to get over to England yet," explains Mutt's agent and the show's producer, Dom Bedooby, a dapper gentleman with a distracting lazy eye. "Not sure we will, it doesn't seem to be necessary. It turns out, maybe Shakespeare was over in New Jersey a lot or he lent his stuff to someone who kept it and came over here. Either way, we're finding a lot of stuff."

So far, he claims, the results have been extraordinary. " Mutt has discovered at least 17 lost Shakespeare plays, a buncha sonnets, and some dirty limericks he wrote when he was drunk. I've had it all looked at by an expert, he said it was all pretty genuine-looking. He also warned me that some pretty big fat-cats in the Shakespeare racket wouldn't like what we were doing, and they might try to discredit us, possibly by substituting a buncha phony-baloney garbage for our genuine artifacts."

He agrees to show me copies of some of their finds only after I agree to look at them with his my hands clasped behind my back. The smudgy photocopies tell a remarkable story, lost works representing a significant new percentage of Shakespeare output; titles such as "Love's Labor's Moist" and 'The Twelfth Gentleman of Bologna" dance in front of my eyes. Then the xeroxes are suddenly snatched away by Bedooby. "Can't have you describing this stuff in print, no way..." he sighs as he stuffs the copies back in their envelope. "Too dangerous."

And besides, it's time to shoot. Today Mutt has received a tip that a small-time informer known as "Loquacious Leonard" might have the info on where a certain lost masterpiece might be found. Mutt and Leonard stand patiently, each staring off into separate space, while the light is tested and the camera prepared. Then, on the cry of "Action!," Mutt grabs the snitch by his lapels and pushes him into some garbage cans. "Wherezat Shakespeare folio at?" he bellows, snortily. "Answer me, you punk!'

After another minute or two of roughhousing, Leonard stammers out an address, in Tenafly, about thirty-five minutes away. "Stay outta trouble," Mutt grumbles, pushing his finger into Leonard's nose. "I'll be keeping an eye on you." Then the assistant director hands the stoolie a check.

We all pile in to the van and set out, arriving at a shabby two-storey house on a seedy residential street. I follow behind the camera crew as Mutt rings the doorbell. The door is opened by a stooped man with thinning hair and a sheepish grin. "Yes?" he queries. Mutt gets right to the point. "I wanna know, if you've got, a missing play by one William Shakespeare, known in his own time as William the Playmaker." He pauses, then, toughening his aspect a little, he growls "C'mon, if you've got it, lemme have it. I'll make sure they go easy on you," It's not at all clear what he meant by that last sentence. but the homeowner doesn't seem to mind at all. "It's in here, you can take it, I was wrong to deny it to posterity," he proclaims as he leads us inside his house and down the hallway.

The manuscript is lying on a table in the dining room beneath a framed poster of Bud Man. On the cover is clearly printed "Love Labors A Lot. Copyright MDCVI by William Shakespeare, Esq." Looking at the first page shows me some tantalizingly Shakespearean language, although troublingly I notice it's written on the back of an Applebees shareholders report. But then the play is snatched away by Mutt. "Looks realer than shit," he announces as he shoves the pages into a briefcase handcuffed to the wrist of a production assistant. Then he walks outside and holds two fingers up to the sky in a contemplative gesture. "This one's for you, Will, " he says softly. And, with that, today's shooting is finished.

"I like to think Will and me had a lot in common," he says before being whisked away for a promotional appearance (he's fighting Santa in a shopping mall, to benefit anti-AIDS awareness). "Like me, he grew up poor, people told him he couldn't amount to nothing. Then he got a job, writing plays. And now I got a job, finding those plays. It's come full circle," he says, and then he is gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: SCOWL IN THE FAMILY (Chapter excised from Mark Twain's Autobiography 1910-2010)

Creative work can be a tough business. Take my good friend Vincent Price… In 1970 he had the chance to change his career, and get away from his horror-film image. Vincent was tired of pimply-faced teens coming up to him and saying they loved to be scared by him, he wanted mainstream respect. He had been hired by producer Norman Lear to play a character named Archie Bunker in the ground-breaking new television series "All in the Family." It was going to be controversial and give Vincent a whole new image.

Except it wasn't working out. I visited the set and witnessed Vincent wrestling with his performance. "Meaathead, you are a witless fool!" he was shouting at a young actor named Rob Reiner. "Your whole generation tries my patience with its inability to comprehend the true forces that underpin this Universe!" "Oh, Archie!" said Jean Stapleton, in a effort to save the scene.

"Vincent, could you please be less Shakespearean and sinister," said the director, but it was obvious Vincent couldn't do it. Playing a blue-collar working-class stiff from Queens just wasn't in his vocabulary, and he was soon replaced with Carroll O'Connor. He didn't give up, though, and a few years later had managed to be cast as the father in a retro sitcom called "Happy Days." That didn't work out either, and he was replaced by the more amiable Tom Bosley. "I'm afraid you're stuck with murdering and torturing people, Vincent," I consoled him.

Albert Einstein opened his mouth. "I-" he began, but Mark Twain cut him off. "Quit complaining, Al! I rented this steamboat so we could take a vacation together, we're both too stressed out from our jobs as lawmaking groundskeepers. You can finish your tests when we get back!"

"I just hope nothing goes giant-size," grouched Einstein, but Twain had a bite on his fishing line. "i just bought this fishing line!" he growled grimly around his cigar. "Whatever is biting it is getting a poke on the noggin." Quickly removing his jacket, he dived into the water and punching noises started coming out of it. Einstein took the opportunity to have a fantasy about an equation.

Twain climbed back out of the river. They were on the mighty Missisissippi and the paddlewheels made so much noise that they both had to shout. "That fish was a new breed of aggressive. I have to operate on the presumption that someone fed it drugs... it wasn't you, was it, Al?"

Einstein was horrified. "Of course not! I have only drugged fish in the pursuit of atomic immortality! But if some sinister figure has done this, then I hope it was not a fellow member of the Princeton Twelve, that shadowy organization that I have never mentioned I had been a part of." And he refused to say anything more.

Later they pulled into a riverside clam shack and had clam shakes. As they prepared to turn the keys in the steamboat's ignition Twain paused. "The driver of the boat ahead of us... he smelled like a criminal!" As his face hardened, the steamboat ahead suddenly shot off. "They saw my facial expression!" yelled Twain, and Einstein lost his balance as their boat lurched into high speed chase mode. "They're heading down the river!" pointed out the writer of such classics as "Tom Joad in Paris" and "The Prancing Pauper." "If we can go faster than them, we can possibly catch up. Paddle, wheels, paddle!"

"It's up to the boat now," observed Einstein, and he went to the lounge chairs to answer some fan mail. The first envelope he selected from the mailbag was decorated with smiley faces and hearts, as well as a carefully printed "LUV U." "This person or persons clearly like us a great deal," mused Einstein before opening it. Inside was a simple card: YOU STINK! "People are illogical creatures," chuckled Einstein as he prepared to write his reply.

"Hey, genius! How about some rockin' chase music?" snapped Twain. "Very well," grumbled Einstein, and, abandoning the mail for the time being, he shuffled over to the guitar locker. Taking out his favorite Stratocaster, he proceeded to play a blistering set of "chase rock" that included "Who's Chasin' Who?""The Chase is the Game," and a dozen other hits. "Good thing I was wearing my silver lame pantsuit and platform shoes," he smiled to himself while rocking out. Twain concentrated on the chase, and it continued fine until the river turned a corner and they found the other steamboat, abandoned.

"Look! They're getting into that submarine, over there!" shouted Einstein. "Who cares!" snarled Twain, who could really be quite moody and unpredictable sometimes. "Let it go- we got no jurisdiction!" He put on his sunglasses and started to play sax as Einstein examined the sub through binoculars. "It has those Deluffenschrafft fan vents that were popular for a while... a wily old physicist could probably swim in through one of those, take over by impersonating the captain, and drive them all to the nearest police station" he mused to himself as he prepared to do just that. Later, as he counted his reward money, Einstein laughed while Twain shook his head. "You wanted us to have a vacation... but I am catching the, how you say, scum who give drugs to fish, and getting paid well I am too in the bargain!"

"Sometimes you talk English as good as me, other times you sound like you just got off the boat," pointed out an exasperated Twain.

Are You a Hero? (from Splitsider)

Are you the heroic type? You might just need the right opportunity to prove yourself. Or maybe

you'd make the perfect victim. Take this quiz to find out!

1. You are having dinner in a nice-type restaurant with your date. Suddenly armed robbers burst in, waving shotguns. "Everybody put their hands in the air!" bellows the leader. "We're here for the stew- and we'll take your valuables as well!" Do you:

A: Say "Yes, sir" in a sniveling little voice, and put your hands in the air

B: Blink stupidly at them, remaining in a frozen position even as the leader comes over yelling and hits you with the butt of his gun

C: Slide beneath the table to the ground, palming your steak knife, as you wriggle like a snake towards the work area, where you will get started preparing your deathtraps

2. You are watching a movie with your date when some drunken Gauchos burst into the theater, singing nursery rhymes from their childhood. "Everybody, sing along!" yells the leader menacingly, as his friends notice your lady and move towards her, chuckling lustfully. Do you:

A: Say "Yes, sir" in a sniveling wormy voice, then begin an off-key version of "Row, Row, Row your Boat" while the Gauchos paw your date

B: Sit staring at them like a witless oaf, until they come over and begin urinating on you; still you do not react

C: Gently kickbox your date to the ground; then, dragging her with you, wriggle your way to the mens room to begin preparing your deathtraps

3. You are visiting your young son at his new home with your ex-wife and her new husband, a Jonathan Pryce-type sneery billionaire, who is unveiling a new laser system that can target major cities and hold them to ransom. Mingling with the journalists, however, are a clique of determined terrorists, who capture the laser and start issuing demands, gunning down all those who oppose them. They seize your child and threaten to spank him unless the President kneels in obeisance. Do you:

B: Stand staring at the scene in front of you blankly as if you're on TV, until a terrorist comes over and clubs you down.

C: Methodically elude and kill all the terrorists, all the time making deadpan wisecracks and patronizing the Billionaire as he grovels wormily and then stabs you in the back,being treacherous like all billionaires are! But you survive, defeating all odds and winning back your wife and son, if you want them.

4. You are dressed up as Lemony Fressh, the Lemon Pledge mascot, because you are working as a character at the Cleansing Products World amusement park. Every day you stand near the entrance to the Germworld ride, where you wordlessly portray your distress at the footprints that visitors to the park are leaving. Suddenly you see the notorious terrorist madman Osama Bin Laden, dressed as an ordinary tourist. "Hey man," he hisses, sidling up to you, "know where I can get me some real Dutch pornography, the serious hardcore stuff? I always look at it before blowing up an amusement pa- I mean, going on a ride" he finishes lamely. Do you:

A: Say "Yes, sir" in a sniveling, wormy little voice, then lead him over to the Dutch Pornography stand

B: Stand gaping stupidly as he grows impatient, then says "whatever" and goes to get his pornography elsewhere

C: Keeping your voice steady, you nod. "The snowflake has blown with the wind to the land of ice" you mutter. "What's that?" he says, suddenly suspicious, but you lock eyes with him. "I'm one of you, man! I had an accident that scrambled my brains and now I can't remember the proper code." He nods at this, completely reassured, and you lead him through a doorway marked "OFFICIAL ACCESS ONLY." This leads into a warren of steel stairs and walkways, hissing steam pipes etc. At the bottom there is a modest office space where you sometimes take refuge in the newspaper crossword. Ironic, since newspapers destroyed your life when they exaggerated what had been said about you at the military board of inquiry. Now you're a civilian and forever denied the simple joy of kickboxing through the air while firing a machine gun or two. Until now.

"Mister Osama," you begin, "I'm a simple American, and I believe-" "What is this Simple American?" he interrupts rudely, spitting as he talks. "Where is my pornography? Show me my pornography, you ignorant son of a dung." At this moment you see in his face every lousy, nagging boss you ever had, and you snap. Leaping over the desk, you grip his lapels in your fists. "Listen to me, you piece of-" and he becomes alarmed. "Comrades, seize him!" he shouts. "Comrades? You have no comrades here! Just you and me" you point out, but then you feel a rifle barrel touching your ear. "You have reasoned incorrectly, my friend," sneers the owner of the rifle. The voice seems familiar, and as you turn slowly you realize to your horror that it is none other than VH1 mainstay Doctor Drew, of Celebrity Rehab fame. He is sporting a new, large curly mustache and a new accent. "Welcome home… brother" he says to Osama. Reeling with stunned surprise, you still manage to kick the gun out of his hands. "Get him!" snarls Bin Laden, and you run up the stairs as terrorists appear seemingly everywhere, their uzis spitting bullets that never quite reach you but ping and pong everywhere as you escape and get to work on the deathtraps. The whole affair climaxes with you tying a nude Osama to the highest tower in all of Cleansing Products World, to lure his elegantly sinister brother out of hiding after all his minions and ninjas have been killed and a lot of the park is blown up but no civilians are hurt. Maybe a few of the security guards. That big loudmouth Roy is humiliated by being forced to strip down to his underwear. Anyway Doctor Drew comes out holding a gun to the head of your Mother. "Show yourself!" he shouts, and your Mother says "Do as he says, now," taking the other person's side as usual. But you see she is about to sneeze and when she does you swing on an electric cord from the tower right onto the astonished TV doctor as you put six bullets into his chest while shouting "This is how we do it in America!" Even then your Mother can't act grateful.

5. You feel you have reason to be angry with Ronald Passinas, a milk distributor based in Atwood, New Jersey. Do you:

A: Write an angry letter

B: Do nothing

C: Murder him on the night of December 5th, 2003

ANSWERS. For questions 1-4, give yourself 1 points for every 'A' answer, 2 points for every 'B' answer, and ten pints for every 'C' answer.

4-8 points: Oh dear, you are a worm! Hello down there, worm!

9-23 points: You have some good instincts, although you tend to feel underappreciated and underutilized.

24-40 points: Nobody pushes you around. You are the ultimate man of action, a one-man killing machine.

For question 5, award yourself 1 point for a yes on A or B, and a ten for a yes on C.

2-4 points: You know how to hold your temper. You may have gotten pretty angry at Ronald Passinas, but you stayed within the confines of the law and didn't let your rage get out of hand.

5-10 points: Aha! So YOU are the killer of Ronald Passinas! I'm waited eight long years to say these words: Cuff him, boys!